Page 69 of Souvenir of Love

The old womanstood uncertainly before the desk of the officer in charge of security for the department of Rouen. She was unaccustomed to dealing with the authorities. She’d spent most of her life trying not to be noticed by such people. She’d long ago learned that if a peasant such as she lifted her head up, most likely she’d get her ears boxed. Still, she’d walked all morning through the mud left by last night’s rain and the information she had was important.

The officer looked up from his work, his black eyes taking in her ragged skirt, her soiled apron, and the strings of gray hair hanging loose from her cotton cap. “You have business with me, citizeness?” he inquired, his voice skeptical.

She licked her thin, dry lips and managed a low, stuttering sound.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Someone,” she said softly, then cleared her voice and started again. “Someone has been stealing my eggs.”

“I see.” The officer pushed his tricorne hat with its bold revolutionary cockade back on his head and scratched at an elusive flea.

“Not just one egg, but three.” She held up three wrinkled fingers to emphasize her point.

“And these eggs, is it possible they might have been stolen by a rat? Or perhaps a fox?”

“A rat would not have taken so many, and a fox, why, he’d have taken my chickens, not their eggs.” She shook her head. “No, it was a person; of this I am sure.”

“So,” he repeated, examining a speck between his thumb and forefinger, “someone has been stealing your eggs.”

“And my neighbor Jacques’s coat, right off the back of his wagon. A good coat it was, too, not more than two or three years old.”

He flicked the speck away. “And why do you think this is a matter for the Rouen Committee of Public Safety? Most likely it is the prank of some neighbor’s boy.”

“No, no, citizen. The neighbor’s boys have all joined the army.” She leaned forward. “I think, citizen, that there is a fugitive hiding in the area. I think you should send some soldiers to watch my coop.”

“We have arrested all of the fugitives in this area.”

“Perhaps it is some other enemy of the Republic who is stealing my eggs,” she insisted.

The officer reached for a sheet of paper and picked up a pen. Dipping the nib in a bottle of ink, he asked, “Your name?” The old woman supplied him with her name and address, watching as the pen moved swiftly across the page, leaving marks she couldn’t read. When the pen stopped, the officer looked at her. “This is very interesting information, citizeness. You can be certain we will give it all the attention it deserves.”

She smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and thanked him.

The officer watched as she turned and walked away. As the heavy wooden door closed behind her, he picked up the paper and added it to the pile on the corner of his desk.

Twenty-Five

The chill in the air and the chillier woman in his bed had made it impossible for James to sleep. When would he get it through his thick skull Elizabeth Harcrest was not for him? Her brother had made itclearshe was beyond his reach, and now so had she. Why,why, had he ever insisted they share a bed? Was it simply because she was?—

“There, Dinsmore. See how neatly it comes through,” David whispered, pointing at the list of names and addresses appearing on the interior of the trunk with each swipe of the solution from the cologne bottle.

“Very good.” With an effort, James forced himself to focus on the business at hand and not Elizabeth, who was sitting on the other side of the paneled dressing screen. “These two here.” He pointed at several darkening lines. “Tell Marcus and Andre to ride ahead again today and arrange for me to meet with them tomorrow in the merchant’s quarter in Amiens. Make sure you take the appropriate letters of introduction from Moreham and conceal them in Marcus’s writing desk. Tell them to deliver the letters, but to say nothing. If they’re caught, they should say they are merely servants; they have no knowledge of what’s in the letters or why I want to meet with these men. All negotiationsare to be left to me.”That’s what Grenville sent me to do. That and only that. No point wondering if what I feel for Elizabeth might be…

“…stronger. I thought about making the solution stronger, but this seems to work just fine. What about her?” David shot a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the screen. Elizabeth was supposedly making ready to leave, though James heard precious few sounds of movement from that quarter.Good God, what had he been thinking? Of how warm she is, and just how good she smells…

“Stinks, this mess does.” David recorked the bottle, then handed it and the rag he’d used to swipe the trunk’s interior to James. “Better slap a bit of this on your face, Dinsmore, just as a precaution in case anybody asks about the smell.”

James pressed the rag to his cheeks and neck, hoping the odiferous solution would be better at keeping Elizabeth at arm’s length than he was managing.

If you tella man never to touch you again, Elizabeth reflected sourly,first make certain all the laces on your gown have been fastened. James made it clear at the outset that he would not hire a lady’s maid for her; he couldn’t afford a maid’s gossip any more than he could afford the additional expense. And furthermore, the lack of a maid would lend credence to the parts they were to play—aristocrats intent on setting aside their traditional privileges. When she’d pointed out he hadthreeservants, he saidthatwas a different thing altogether.

She’d set about dressing this morning as if she had always done so. She arranged her hair simply in a twist at the neck. She tied her stays and petticoats as best she could. But when she’d stepped into her gown, she knew she was in trouble. There were two buttons in the middle of her back that, however much shetwisted and turned, she simply couldn’t reach. So she sat behind a screen, dress drooping off her shoulders, waiting for James to finish his toilette.

The notion that she’d have to ask him for help was galling.

Hehad David helping him to dress. The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she felt. Clearly, James’s decision not to allow her a maid was a form of torture. He and David were probably whispering about her, laughing about her predicament, plotting new ways to humiliate her. She quietly inched her chair closer to the screen and peeked between the panels. Surprisingly, James was fully dressed. He even had his jacket on. If he was finished with his toilette, what was the delay? James and David seemed to be discussing something about the small trunk.

What was so special about that trunk?